Hijab Butch Blues: A Memoir

by Lamya H Narrated by Ashraf Shirazi

Overview

A queer hijabi Muslim immigrant survives her coming-of-age by drawing strength and hope from stories in the Quran in*this “raw and relatable memoir that challenges societal norms and expectations” (Linah Mohammad, NPR).

“A masterful, must-read contribution to conversations on power, justice, healing, and devotion from a singular voice I now trust with my whole heart.”-Glennon Doyle, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Untamed

THEM'S HONOREE IN LITERATURE ¿ AN AUDACIOUS BOOK CLUB PICK ¿ WINNER: The Brooklyn Public Library Book Prize, the Stonewall Book Award, the Israel Fishman Nonfiction Award ¿ Lambda Literary Award Finalist

A BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR: NPR, Autostraddle, Book Riot, BookPage, Harper's Bazaar, Electric Lit, She Reads

When fourteen-year-old Lamya H realizes she has a crush on her teacher-her female teacher-she covers up her attraction, an attraction she can't yet name, by playing up her roles as overachiever and class clown. Born in South Asia, she moved to the Middle East at a young age and has spent years feeling out of place, like her own desires and dreams don't matter, and it's easier to hide in plain sight. To disappear. But one day in Quran class, she reads a passage about Maryam that changes everything: When Maryam learned that she was pregnant, she insisted no man had touched her. Could Maryam, uninterested in men, be*.*.*. like Lamya?
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From that moment on, Lamya makes sense of her struggles and triumphs by comparing her experiences with some of the most famous stories in the Quran. She juxtaposes her coming out with Musa liberating his people from the pharoah; asks if Allah, who is neither male nor female, might instead be nonbinary; and, drawing on the faith and hope Nuh needed to construct his ark, begins to build a life of her own-ultimately finding that the answer to her lifelong quest for community and belonging lies in owning her identity as a queer, devout Muslim immigrant.
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This searingly intimate memoir in essays, spanning Lamya's childhood to her arrival in the United States for college through early-adult life in New York City, tells a universal story of courage, trust, and love, celebrating what it means to be a seeker and an architect of one's own life.

Editorial Reviews

MARCH 2023 - AudioFile

Ashraf Shirazi reads Lamya H's extraordinary debut memoir with the perfect mix of tenderness and ferocity. Lamya H uses stories and verses from the Quran to reflect on their life as a queer Muslim immigrant. They draw strength and inspiration from the stories of prophets like Maryam and Musa, finding parallels between these celebrated lives and their own. Shirazi's narration is searching, conversational, and often humming with emotion. Her voice flows naturally, drawing listeners into Lamya H's lush prose and probing questions. This powerful, vulnerable, and beautifully written audiobook explores all the complexities of queer and trans Muslim life, ultimately rejoicing in its sacredness. It's a game changer for queer Muslim literature and an absolute must-listen for 2023. L.S. © AudioFile 2023, Portland, Maine

Publishers Weekly

10/17/2022

Lamya H. debuts with a thoughtful examination of her queer South Asian identity and Islamic faith. At age 14, Lamya, who uses a pseudonym to protect her identity, first read Surah Maryam, the Quran’s chapter about the woman known in Christianity as the Virgin Mary, and felt a kinship with her, as they were both “uninterested in men.” As a young adult, Lamya moved to the United States from an unnamed Arab city in the Middle East. She encountered rampant Islamophobia at her (unnamed) American university—most painfully in queer circles that didn’t believe a gay person could be Muslim—but gradually found a community of queer Muslims who welcomed her. “This is the world fourteen-year-old me couldn’t even begin to imagine,” she writes. Through the stories of prophets accepting the wahi (a divine revelation or command), Lamya finds the joy in embracing and sharing her queer, Muslim selfhood as a wahi of her own: “It’s that glorious feeling that comes from inviting someone into your world.” The narrative is profoundly emotional, and Lamya’s determination to fight for a better world hits home: “I’m also not faithless enough to think that the direction in which I strive doesn’t matter.” This will inspire both compassion and reflection. Agent: Julia Kardon, HG Literary. (Feb.)

From the Publisher

This beautiful, exquisitely written memoir is as revolutionary now in its vulnerability, honesty, and as the gender explorations in Stone Butch Blues were in 1993 . . . a challenging and deeply satisfying and enlightening read.”—Roxane Gay, bestselling author of Bad Feminist

“As funny as it is original.”—The New York Times

“Through personal experiences, Lamya H navigates the complexities of gender, sexuality and faith as a queer, nonbinary Muslim. It’s a powerful reminder that we are all capable of defying labels and embracing our true selves.”—NPR, “Books We Love for 2023”

“There are people who will call this book blasphemous . . . but there will also be those readers whose minds will be opened, their perspectives broadened, and their binary ways of thinking dismantled.”—The New Arab

“Smart and compassionately written . . . Every chapter is incredibly moving and unfailingly surprising in the ways it connects Quran passages with Lamya’s life.”—Autostraddle (Best Queer Books of 2023)

“Hijab Butch Blues does something I’ve rarely encountered in literature (or in any medium, really)—something I’ve been longing to see my entire life: It challenges the longstanding assumption that queerness and religion, particularly Islam, are incompatible; that they are mutually exclusive categories and that in order to have either, one has to sacrifice the other.”—Zaina Arafat, author of You Exist Too Much, for them

“A truly remarkable rupture in the literary fold.”—Bobuq Sayed, Apogee

“Incisive, achingly honest and thought-provoking.”—Shelf Awareness

“By turns joyful and harrowing . . . profoundly generous and full of perfectly observed moments.”—Xtra Magazine

“Reads as an invitation into the turbidity of faith, and gives no easy answers.”—BOMB

“An inspiring vision of a world in which queerness and the Quran are not only compatible but illuminative of one another.”—Electric Literature

“Searing . . . a bold story of taking hold of one’s life and building something completely unique.”—BuzzFeed

“[Lamya’s] determination to fight for a better world is inspiring…will leave readers feeling uplifted and empowered.”—Queer Space Magazine

“Exciting and candid . . . heralded as a new queer classic.”—Ms. Magazine

“A gripping and beautiful memoir. I couldn’t put it down.”—Andrea Lawlor, author of Paul Takes the Form of a Mortal Girl

“A revelation . . . with precision, compassion, and deeply observed storytelling, Lamya H navigates the fault lines of life and love in a queer Muslim body.”—Linda Villarosa, author of Under the Skin

“A richly textured and deeply moving testament to the power of faith . . . Leaping effortlessly from the personal to the political, Hijab Butch Blues . . . is sure to become a queer classic.”—Kai Cheng Thom, author of Falling Back in Love with Being Human

“Lamya H has fashioned in this book what I never thought possible: she describes a world in which I could live.”—Kazim Ali, author of Fasting for Ramadan

“To be invited into the richness of Lamya’s interior world . . . is no minor gift. Hijab Butch Blues is for anyone coming home to themselves in a world content to disorient us. Lamya H will show us the way.”—Cole Arthur Riley, bestselling author of This Here Flesh

“Wonderful. I wish Hijab Butch Blues could be on every school curriculum, everywhere.”—Harriet Kline, author of This Shining Life

Library Journal

01/13/2023

The author, a queer Muslim who immigrated to New York as a college student, explores the importance of family, being true to oneself, and the tenets of a religion often at odds with queerness. This memoir in essays with narratives, at times, witty, sharp, poetic, and descriptive is woven with stories from the Quran. The combination leads to the author strengthening her relationship with Allah. The book probes internal conflicts around what coming out is meant to accomplish and to whom. The author persistently challenges a world that classifies identities in rigid absolutes. The book's relevant and timely discussions of race, sexual orientation, and religion offer an empathetic approach to understanding them. VERDICT This book is recommended for all public and academic libraries.—Katy Duperry

MARCH 2023 - AudioFile

Ashraf Shirazi reads Lamya H's extraordinary debut memoir with the perfect mix of tenderness and ferocity. Lamya H uses stories and verses from the Quran to reflect on their life as a queer Muslim immigrant. They draw strength and inspiration from the stories of prophets like Maryam and Musa, finding parallels between these celebrated lives and their own. Shirazi's narration is searching, conversational, and often humming with emotion. Her voice flows naturally, drawing listeners into Lamya H's lush prose and probing questions. This powerful, vulnerable, and beautifully written audiobook explores all the complexities of queer and trans Muslim life, ultimately rejoicing in its sacredness. It's a game changer for queer Muslim literature and an absolute must-listen for 2023. L.S. © AudioFile 2023, Portland, Maine

Kirkus Reviews

2022-12-07
A queer Muslim writer and organizer chronicles a life navigating between religion and culture.

Lamya H faced discrimination throughout childhood and adolescence for being an immigrant in a “rich Arab country.” She felt invisible—even evil—just like the spirits called jinn. At 14, she wanted to disappear—not just because she felt different, but also because she understood the possible ramifications of her burgeoning sexuality. “Gay is a hush-hush thing, not to be talked about seriously, only to be used as an insult,” she writes. The Quranic story of Maryam, who “doesn’t like men,” gave the author courage, but when she began wearing hijab to honor Maryam, non–hijab-wearing girls dismissed her. As a Muslim college student in the U.S., Lamya faced constant scrutiny and discovered that Black and other immigrant friends endured similar mistreatment. “I notice that people who are white or appear to be white are on top of the pyramid here,” she writes, “just like they were in the country where my parents and brother still live, that sometimes this category of ‘appears to be white’ includes wealthy, worldly, light-skinned Arabs.” Professional life in New York brought the author into contact with a group of mostly straight Muslim feminists who helped her refine a nonbinary vision of God but could not offer her a truly inclusive space. Remembering Muhammad’s mission to build a “community of believers,” Lamya forged a circle of queer and nonbinary social justice activists, found life mentors among a group of LGBTQ+ Muslims, and unexpectedly fell in love with a White woman. Their relationship helped Lamya understand the importance of focusing on “curious, kind dialogue and to support those I love—instead of fighting to fend off racists, sexists, homophobes, transphobes, [and] Islamophobes.” As the author examines her evolving relationship to her religion, she also vibrantly explores what it means to live with an open-minded, open-hearted activist seeking to change the world for the better.

A hopeful and uplifting memoir.

Product Details

BN ID:	2940174947054
Publisher:	Penguin Random House
Publication date:	02/07/2023
Edition description:	Unabridged
Sales rank:	665,080

Read an Excerpt

Maryam

I am fourteen the year I read Surah Maryam. It’s not like I haven’t read this chapter of the Quran before, I have—I’ve read the entire Quran multiple times, all 114 chapters from start to finish. But I’ve only read it in Arabic, a language that I don’t speak, that I can vocalize but not understand, that I’ve been taught for the purpose of reading the Quran. So I’ve read Surah Maryam before: sounded out the letters, rattled off words I don’t know the meaning of, translated patterns of print into movements of tongue and lips. Read as an act of worship, an act of learning, an act of obedience to my father, under whose supervision I speed-­read two pages of Quran aloud every evening. I’ve heard the surah read, too—recited on the verge of song during Taraweeh prayer in Ramadan; on the Quran tapes we listen to in the car during traffic jams; on the Islamic radio station that blares in the background while my mother cooks. This surah is beautiful, and one that I’m intimately familiar with. The cadence of its internal rhyme, the five elongated letters that comprise the first verse, the short, hard consonants re­peated in intervals. But although I’ve read Surah Maryam before, my appreciation for it has been limited to the ritual and the aesthetic. I’ve never read read it.

I am fourteen the year we read Surah Maryam in Quran class. We, as in the twenty-­odd students in my grade, in the girls’ section of the Islamic school that I attend in this rich Arab country that my family has moved to. It’s not a fancy international school, but my classmates and I are from all over the world—Bangladesh, Nigeria, Egypt, Germany—and our parents are always telling us to be grateful for our opportunities. Mine are always reminding me why we left the country I was born in a decade ago—a country where we lived next door to my grandmother and a few streets down from my cousins, where I remember being sur­rounded by love—to this country where we don’t know anyone and don’t know the language and my mother can’t drive. My parents are always listing reasons we’ve stayed: better jobs, more stability, a Muslim upbringing. Which includes an Islamic education in school.

Twice a week, my classmates and I have Quran class. We line up in the windowless hallway outside the room where we have most of our other lessons—a room we’ve decorated and claimed desks in and settled into. From there, we begrudgingly make our way to a drab room in the annex called the “language lab.” The name is deceptive; it’s just a regular classroom outfitted with headphones and tape players, recently appropriated from the boys’ section in an attempt at a more equal distribution of the school’s re­sources. But gross boy smells—sweat and farts and cheap deodorant—still linger in the windowless room, and it’s a five-­minute walk away on the other side of the school’s campus. Understandably, the rate of attrition is high for these trips to Quran class. Girls duck out to the bathroom along the way and fail to rejoin the procession (“Miss, I really have to change my pad, but I’ll be right back, wallah”), or feign ignorance of where class is being held (“Miss, someone told us the language lab is closed this week so we waited in our classroom the entire time”), or pretend to have gotten lost (“Miss, I really thought I had to take a right at the stairs and by the time I figured it out, it didn’t make sense to disturb the lesson”). It is unbelievably easy to skip Quran class.

I, on the other hand, never skip Quran class. I go to every single one without fail, not because of religious devoutness, but because that’s the kind of ninth grader I am. Too scared to cut class and a terrible liar. An overachiever, hell-­bent on getting good grades and ranking first in my class. A nerd, hungry to learn about anything and everything; an avid reader, fascinated by the storytelling aspect of Quran class and eager to know what happens next; a clown, unwilling to give up having an audience for the jokes and convoluted questions and inappropriate remarks that I offer in class, preferring the laughs and groans and eye rolls of my classmates to being with myself, to the thoughts that pulse through my solitude.

But also, there’s this: I’m bored. I’m thoroughly bored by school. I’ve figured out that each class contains only about ten minutes of actual learning that I need to pay attention to at the start of the period, and then I can tune out. I’ve figured out that my teachers are puzzles that can be cracked with a little effort at the beginning of the semester: which teachers reward acting like you’re trying hard, which ones have soft spots for quick-­witted students, which ones just want everyone to be quiet in class. I’ve figured this out: once I listen for a bit in class and grasp the new material and win over the teacher, I can spend the rest of the time doing whatever I want. Sometimes this means decorating my pencil case with correction fluid; other times it means reading contraband novels under my desk. Sometimes it means disrupting the class: coming up with pointed questions of existential importance that I just need to ask the teacher now. But mostly, it means whispering with—and distracting—whoever ends up sitting next to me.

This Quran class is no different. We are slogging through Surah Maryam painfully slowly, about ten verses at a time. The only part of class I enjoy is the beginning. We start by listening to the recitation of the verses in Arabic. One of the girls in my class is a Quran aficionado and brings in tapes of reciters with lush, melodious voices. I put on my headphones, close my eyes, and for a few minutes let the sounds wash over me. I lose myself to the tune set by the rhyme, I let myself be moved. This part always comes to an end too soon. The teacher stops the tape and takes over, reading the verses one by one in a stoic monotone, each word clear and well enunciated. And we follow, mimicking her tone and reciting lazily, most of us just mumbling through and letting the Arab girls who know what they’re doing take up the bulk of the aural space.

The next part of class is the translation. We read the English meaning of the Arabic words we’ve just recited, with everyone taking turns reading one verse aloud from our government-­issued Qurans. I deliberately sit near the back of the class so we’ll be done reading before my turn comes, so I can skim through the translation of the verses we’ve read and then blissfully tune out the rest of the lesson. Today I’m composing a note on my calculator to my best friend, with whom I’ve been trying to come up with a code using numbers and symbols and the smattering of letters on the keyboards of our scientific calculators—then someone in the first row reads the translation of this verse aloud:

And the pains of childbirth [of Isa] drove her [Maryam] to the trunk of a palm tree. She said, “Oh, I wish I had died before this and was in oblivion, forgotten.” (19:23)

I stop writing my note, stop looking at my watch, stop trying to decide what I’ll eat for lunch, stop breathing for a second. Because this verse is saying that Maryam wants to die. Maryam, of the eponymous surah we’re reading, wants to die. Maryam—who has a whole chapter devoted to her in the Quran, this woman beloved to God, the mother of a prophet, held up as an example to mankind—is saying she wants to die. In this difficult moment of childbirth, of birthing the prophet Isa, who will go on to birth the entire re­ligion of Christianity, this Maryam is talking to God, complaining to God, screaming in pain to God that she wants to be in oblivion, forgotten. That she wants to die.

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